Driving Miss Lonely

I picked her up at the Charlottesville train station,

mid-seventies, small, frail,

long sleeve jacket and floppy brim hat,

even though it was close to ninety;

I knew she was going to make me

earn my money;

I could feel her disdainful stare from behind the over-sized sun glasses

as I pulled up to the loading area,

I got the impression she wanted to pummel me with her cane

for being two minutes past the scheduled pick-up time,

she stood and waited until I finally got out of the car,

I tried to be cordial as I put her bag in the trunk,

she didn’t say a word as she waited for me to open the door for her,

I assumed she would want to sit in the back,

but when I started to open the rear door she made a

disappointing “oh” sound, indicating she would prefer to sit up front,

so I opened the front door and she got in;

somehow I had become her private chauffer;

once she was satisfied my driving skills were competent

she began talking, I listened,

it was going to be a long ride from Charlottesville to Lexington;

“do you know what my pet peeve is ?” she asked,

before I could reply she answered,

“grammar, people don’t know how to properly write

or speak today, it is a lost art;”

seems she had once been an editor, with a masters degree

in writing, and she was appalled by today’s lack of

education when it came to writing,

she was returning from a trip to Washington D.C.,

where she had visited the holocaust museum,

she told me that she had once visited the home of Anne Frank

in Amsterdam with her ex-husband,

who had been college professor at Washington & Lee,

seems he was a liar, who had cheated on her throughout their marriage,

when the kids were out of the house she told him they were through,

she just couldn’t take it any more,

she told me about her PhD children and her brilliant grandchildren,

I asked if she ever wrote or edited poetry,

a little she replied, but it was ‘personal’ and she would never have it

published;

‘isn’t all poetry personal’ I thought to myself but remained quiet;

she told me she was working on a play,

how writing plays had become her new passion,

that one of her plays had been performed off-Broadway,

when I asked her if she worked with the drama department

at Washington & Lee she scoffed;

“I’ve seen some of their recent works and they weren’t very good,

they used to have an excellent drama department, but its gone

downhill;”

she then proceeded to tell me more details from her entire life,

the messy divorce,

the children she rarely saw,

the grandchildren she barely knew,

listening, I realized she was a tired, bitter, lonely old woman,

with no one in her life but equally tired cab drivers,

and others she managed to turn into her private servants;

when we got to Lexington,

I carried her bag up to her third floor apartment,

she thanked me and gave me a twenty dollar tip;

I think it was much cheaper than therapy.

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